“That is very hard to say right now, but I would not count on it. I wish I could be more optimistic.”
Melissa got to her feet, wearing a glum expression as Saul escorted her out.
Chapter 26
By the time I had emerged from my hiding place and stepped into the office, Saul and Hewitt were evaluating Melissa Cartwright’s performance. “She is just too cute by half,” Saul was saying. “That Miss Prissy act of hers wears pretty darn thin pretty darn quickly.”
“However, I do believe she is genuine,” Hewitt countered. “True, I don’t know the young woman all that well, but it seems to me she’s really rattled by all that has happened in this star-crossed show.”
“What about you, Archie?” Saul said. “You are an expert on attractive young women. I know that to be true because you have told me so on many more occasions than I can count.”
“Aw, shucks,” I replied. “I am just a country boy from the rolling hills of southern Ohio.”
“Speaking of acts that are wearing pretty thin. Out with it: Give us your reading on Miss Cartwright?”
“I would be more interested in hearing Wolfe’s reading on her, but he has fled the scene and is likely hunkered down in the kitchen bedeviling Fritz, so that will have to wait. However, since you asked, I think there is more to the young lady than meets the eye. She is attractive, no question. And those dimples of hers did not escape my notice the first time we met, back in the days when I was known as Alan MacGregor, Canadian magazine writer. But I can’t help but feel she is holding something back.”
“Well, she did own up to her interest in young Mr. Peters,” Hewitt said, “although Wolfe had to pry it out of her.”
“True, but that intimacy alone is hardly a crime in itself,” Saul remarked. “After all, the two play a couple in the production, so it is hardly surprising that their intimate stage relationship might have carried over into the larger world. It has happened countless times before, both on Broadway and in Hollywood. Marriages have resulted from such pairings.”
“Speaking of Hollywood, Wolfe still has one more person to interview,” I said. “Brad Lester, he of what the magazines call the silver screen.”
“You both have met him,” Saul said to us. “What is your take?”
“Overall, I have been impressed,” Hewitt said. “I haven’t talked all that much to Lester, but I have seen him twice in the production and watched a few of the rehearsals. He is a first-rate professional and seems easy to get along with. He doesn’t appear to have a lot of baggage—and by that I mean an inflated ego.”
“I agree with Mr. Hewitt,” I said. “When I interviewed him, I found him to be gregarious and unimpressed with himself. I am sure the man has got an ego, but overall, he seems to do a good job of suppressing it.”
“What about his relationship with Ashley Williston?” Saul posed.
“Ah, now there is the question. When Wolfe and I talked to Breckenridge in what now seems like ages ago, he told us Ashley was so nasty to Lester that, at one point, the actor was heard to say ‘I’d like to strangle that bitch.’”
“She certainly seems to have the capacity to bring out the worst in people,” Saul observed.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “and when I asked Lester about her, he was a little slow in responding. Being a good performer, he recovered quickly and praised her professionalism. And he was unstinting in his praise for Breckenridge, crediting him with taking a gamble on a film star. If he had a reason for killing the producer, I’m darned if I can see it. And then—”
I was interrupted by the phone. I answered and was greeted with the belligerent tones of Inspector Cramer. “I assume you want to speak to Mr. Wolfe,” I said.
“No, you will do. Since I still think Wolfe had a hand in that ad the Williston dame stuck in the Gazette, I thought both of you would like know about the kind of garbage it drew, and you can pass this along to your boss.”
“We’ve told you that Mr. Wolfe did not have anything to do with—”
“I know, so you say. Here’s one response, from a woman who signs herself as Mrs. Williams of Larchmont. ‘I attended a matinee of Death at Cresthaven, and it is obvious to me, as it should be to any other theatergoer, who killed Mr. Breckenridge. It was that awful Reed woman, of course, who played the maid, Olive. She was given terrible lines to speak, and people I overheard in the audience were laughing at her, making fun of her. There’s your murderer.’”
“Very interesting, but—”
“You need to hear these,” Cramer cut in. “Here’s one from a C. Logan of Staten Island. He says, ‘A lady friend of mine happens to be a neighbor of Ashley Williston on the Upper East Side, and a few weeks ago, we attended a cocktail party that the Williston woman attended. She’d had a few cocktails and began to make comments, and very snide comments they were, about Roy Breckenridge and how he was undermining her by putting a Hollywood star in the cast and giving him the top billing. She got so angry that the hostess asked her, politely of course, to leave, which she did, but not quietly. If you are looking for a killer, you’ve got her.’
“One last response, Goodwin,” Cramer said before I could get in a word. “This one is from Alan Blake of Brooklyn, who says ‘I was not surprised about what happened to Roy Breckenridge. I happen to know one of the stagehands who works on the show, and he said there had been bad blood between Breckenridge and this movie star Brad Lester almost from the start. He claims he heard an angry Lester tell Breckenridge after a performance that “Your problem here is with your cast. You told me I would be well accepted, and that has not been the case. You have sold me a false bill of goods.” So it’s obvious that this Lester is the killer.’”
“Inspector, I —”
“I am not done, Goodwin. So far, Ashley Williston has brought us twenty-two responses to her ad. Here are the votes as murderer: Lester, five; Williston, three; Peters, three; Cartwright, three; Reed, three; Sperry, two; Ennis, two; and a stagehand named Quigley, one. Now isn’t that just dandy?”
“One question, Inspector: How does Miss Williston feel about these responses, given that she herself is tied for second place in the balloting?”
“The woman is hardly happy,” Cramer said, “and I think she’s beginning to regret that she took out that damned ad. I asked her if she was giving us all the responses, and she swore she was. I’ll repeat what I said before: This whole business was a stupid idea.”
“I agree. And I also will repeat what I said before: Nero Wolfe had nothing to do with buying that space in the Gazette.”
Cramer said something I will not repeat and hung up on me. I turned to the others and gave them a summary of our conversation.
Saul laughed. “It would have been even funnier if Ashley had gotten the most votes,” he said. “Still, tied for second isn’t all that bad.”
Hewitt shook his head. “What a mess. That silliness with the advertisement didn’t accomplish a thing. Quite the contrary.”
“Yeah, and Cramer still seems convinced Mr. Wolfe placed the ad,” I said. “So much for tonight. We’ll reconvene tomorrow for the visit from Brad Lester.”
“I can hardly wait,” Lewis Hewitt said, although his tone lacked conviction.
Chapter 27
I was in the office the next morning at 10:45, finishing the typing of a batch of correspondence for Wolfe, when the doorbell sounded. It was Saul and Mr. Hewitt. “Well, gentlemen,” I said when we were seated in the office with coffee, “this is it, our final interview. Are both of you prepared to spend time with a real-life honest-to-goodness movie star?”
“I will try to control my excitement,” Saul told me. “Although, according to what you have told us, the guy seems to be a regular joe.”
“Yes, as I said before, that was my impression. I am sure one of you will correct me if you find I have erred in my judgment of the man.”
&nb
sp; “You both will recall that I also am on record as having been impressed with Mr. Lester,” Hewitt said. “We will rely upon Mr. Panzer and Mr. Wolfe for fresh perspectives on the actor.”
The bell sounded again, and once more, I disappeared from the office while Saul sauntered down the hall to the front door. From my all-too-familiar cranny, I watched as Brad Lester ambled into the office wearing a smile. “Mr. Hewitt, it’s good to see you,” he boomed, shaking hands with the man who might soon become his boss, assuming Death at Cresthaven would eventually be restaged.
Lester looked like a million bucks, but that was hardly surprising, given that his appearance was a major part of his persona: perfectly barbered black hair, likely dyed; a camel-hair sport coat and dark brown slacks; a dark brown, open-collared shirt; a paisley silk ascot; and those cowboy boots he had worn when I interviewed him.
The actor settled into the red leather chair like he owned it just as Nero Wolfe entered the office. “Good morning, sir,” Wolfe said to the guest as he settled in behind his desk. The usual offer of a beverage was proffered and Lester politely declined. “Before we get started, how is Max Ennis?” Lester asked, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
“Stable but still comatose,” Hewitt replied. “His stomach was pumped, of course, but he had the poison in him for some time before the medics got to him. If he does eventually recover, no telling what he will be like.”
“The poor guy,” Lester said with what sounded to be genuine concern.
“You are fond of Mr. Ennis,” Wolfe said.
“I am, although I can’t really say I knew him all that well. He had not been in good health, as all of us knew. But he seemed to overcome any pain he was dealing with once he got onstage. It was inspiring to see.”
“Do you believe he poisoned Mr. Breckenridge and then attempted suicide?”
“The suicide part I can believe, but Max a killer, never!” Lester said with feeling.
“Why do you think he would attempt suicide?”
He shook his head. “I can only suppose that it was because of his deteriorating health.”
“Do you know if Messrs. Breckenridge and Ennis quarreled at any time during the rehearsals and the performances?”
“If they did, I never was aware of it. They seemed to get along well, and I believe they had known each other for some years. For that matter, Max probably knew almost everybody in the Broadway community, which is not surprising. He’d been around for decades.”
“Do you have any nominees for the murderer?”
Lester chewed on his lip. “I really don’t know whether Roy had enemies, but then, I am a newcomer to this world, Mr. Wolfe. I’m still learning my way around.”
“It has been reported that you had some harsh words for Mr. Breckenridge about others in the cast.”
“Really?” the actor said, stiffening. “Who said that?”
Wolfe ignored the question. “Is it true?”
Lester paused for several seconds, then let out air with a sigh. “I do recall saying something to Roy about . . . well, about one of the cast members.”
“Miss Williston?”
“I guess it is hardly a secret that Ashley was resentful of my presence in the cast, particularly early on.”
“For what reason?”
“Reasons, really. She seemed to have an aversion to Hollywood and anyone who makes a living in the movie business. Also, I quickly learned about her anger over the fact that I was billed ahead of her.”
“Do you feel that anger was justified?” Saul asked.
“Possibly. After all, she had a long and generally successful career onstage, while, as I said, I am the new guy on the block, so to speak.”
“Why do you feel you received the top billing?” Wolfe asked.
“There was an article about Death at Cresthaven in Variety just a few days before we opened. It quoted an unnamed ‘Broadway observer’ as saying that the producer and backers of the show felt that I got brought in and billed at the top because I had box-office appeal.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I do, at the risk of seeming immodest.”
“Is it also true that, after either a rehearsal or a performance, you were overheard to say ‘I’d like to strangle that bitch’?”
“You seem to have very good sources, Mr. Wolfe,” Lester said ruefully.
“You do not deny saying that?”
“No, it’s true, and I said that after Ashley had sabotaged one of my lines by cutting me off midsentence. And she did it in such a way that it looked like it was part of the script. I have worked very hard to get along with her, but she can be a trial, worse than any of the prima donnas I’ve been paired with in films, and that is saying something. Have you met Ashley?”
“I have,” Wolfe said. “She is a singular individual.”
That brought a laugh from the actor, who slapped his thigh. “Well said! That is certainly one way of putting it.” He seemed far more relaxed than any of the others who had preceded him to the brownstone.
“So, Mr. Lester, you have no idea whatever as to who might have wished Mr. Breckenridge ill?”
“No, sir, I am afraid I do not have a clue. But we haven’t talked yet about that magazine writer, MacGregor is his name, who was hanging around the set interviewing all of us for some Canadian magazine that turns out to have been a fabrication, according to the newspapers. Whatever his motives, he could be your man. Has he been located and questioned?”
“For reasons I am unable to go into at this time,” Wolfe said, “it has become clear to me, and to the police as well, that Mr. MacGregor has no involvement whatever in the death of Roy Breckenridge. I believe Mr. Hewitt will agree.”
Hewitt nodded, and Brad Lester wore a puzzled look. “Well, then, I guess I have no choice but to take your word for that,” he said. “Is there anything else that you need from me?”
“Not at present,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out of the office.
Lester appeared perplexed at his host’s abrupt departure but did not comment. “As I asked Mr. Wolfe before he left, is there anything else you need from me?”
“Not right now, Brad,” Hewitt said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Do you think there’s any chance at all that Max will recover and that Cresthaven will reopen?” the actor asked.
“I wish I could answer one or both of those questions, but I cannot,” Hewitt told him. “If you want to return to California for the time being, I see no need for you to stay here until everything gets sorted out, which may take some time.”
“No, I believe I will hang around until something gets decided one way or another. I find I’m enjoying New York more every day, and this situation, sad as it may be, is a good opportunity for me to see lots of plays. I am getting to like the idea of the theater, and there’s a lot of it to see here. Besides, I can throw on a pair of sunglasses and walk all over town without being recognized. I can’t do that in L.A., not that people out there do much walking anyway. They drive everywhere, even if their destination is only a block from home. I’m getting more exercise than I have in years.”
“So at least something good has come of all this,” Hewitt said. “Enjoy this beautiful day, the best New York has to offer in the summer.” Saul escorted Lester down the hall, and I made what I hope was my next-to-last exit from the alcove.
“What did you both think of Mr. Lester’s performance?” I asked Saul and Hewitt when we reconvened in the office.
“Smooth, very smooth,” Saul said. “Although I should not be surprised. I have seen him in a couple of films over the years, and he is solid, very self-possessed. Do I think he is capable of murder? I do. But what about in this particular situation? What could he possibly gain by poisoning Breckenridge? The producer had brought him east to help sell tickets with his screen reputation, and
at a time when the onetime film idol’s career was on the wane, by his own admission.”
“I agree with Saul that Brad Lester did not appear to have a reason for killing Roy,” Hewitt said. “If he were a violent man, which I seriously doubt, he would likely have directed his vitriol at Ashley Williston. No, I do not see Brad as the murderer.”
“So where does that leave things,” I asked, throwing my hands up, “other than my not having to stand in that alcove many more times?”
“It leaves things where it always does,” Saul said, “in Mr. Wolfe’s capable hands. You know as well as I do that he’ll figure the whole business out—and sooner rather than later.”
Chapter 28
I was inclined to go along with Saul, but I failed to factor in one element: the dreaded relapse. Wolfe gets seized by one of these every few years, but like a hurricane, there is no way in hell of predicting when one will hit.
It was at eleven the next morning when I realized we were in relapse mode. Wolfe came down from the plant rooms as usual—so far, so good— but he showed no interest in the morning mail, and instead of ringing for beer, he marched out of the room after placing an orange orchid in the vase on his desk.
I waited ten minutes before sauntering into the kitchen. Wolfe was standing over Fritz, who was preparing a mushroom and almond omelet for lunch. “You want to add apricot jam?” Wolfe roared. “Unthinkable!”
Fritz started to argue, but he saw it was futile. He looked miserable, as is the case when Wolfe decides to play at being a chef, something he does often, particularly during relapses. On one of those occasions, I had to talk Fritz out of quitting, which would, of course, have been a calamity.
A few words about past relapses: They can last anywhere from a day to almost a week. I have never figured out what causes these, although they have occurred most often when Wolfe either loses interest in a case or has been stymied by one.
In some relapses, Wolfe eats prodigiously, even when measured by his own standards, such as the time he consumed half a sheep, cooked twenty different ways, in two days. And on another occasion, he quit drinking beer for three days.
Murder, Stage Left Page 16
